


no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home to him)

by maybankiara (juggyjones)



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/maybankiara
Summary: Shit, what if he’s been dead for a while? If his head had been blown off then it must’ve taken ages to reconstruct.What if he comes back and the pogues have moved on, they have families and kids, and Pope’s gone off to university and—‘Shut up,’ JJ whispers to himself. This pitch-black darkness is making him see things, and feel things he doesn’t want to.— in which jj realises he’s immortal when he wakes up buried in a coffin. he’s got to make his way back to his friends - more than anyone else, back to pope, whom he hasn’t admitted his feelings to. (not like he admitted them to himself either, anyway.)
Relationships: JJ Maybank/Pope Heyward
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home to him)

JJ wakes up in a coffin. He comes to the realisation when he makes an attempt to turn around, thinking he’s in the bed of the spare room at the Chateau he’d long ago claimed his own, only for his shoulder to bump into something hard.

‘ _Ow!’_

The sound of him hitting the wood and it feeling oddly… _contained_ , for the lack of a better word, summons a series of flashing images.

A gun in his hands. Topper Thornton dangling by his ankle from a tree, screaming bloody murder. John B shouting JJ’s name. Pope crying it out in pain, Kelce’s hands on his neck.

A gun in Rafe’s hands. White thunder.

‘Fuck,’ he whispers. And then— ‘Holy shit, I’m _immortal_!’

Laughter that falls from his lips is maniacal. He thinks of all the pranks he could do now – if there’s no death to fear, there is _nothing_ to fear. Even if he doesn’t know the limits, JJ can only think of the endless possibilities of what he could do – what do you do when you aren’t afraid of anything?

JJ’s hand slams against the top of the coffin and he does it again, on the verge of crying from excitement. His breathing is rapid and so is his heartbeat.

‘Take _that_ , Rafe! _Whoo_!’

He wants to tell the pogues. He wants to see the look on their faces—all the questions they’ll have—and he wants to see who’s missed him out of others, if anyone has. He has to ask Pope about the implications of his immortality and how it works – if his memory hadn’t suffered up when Rafe blew his head up and it still serves him right, Rafe _did_ blow his head up. It was probably a closed casket.

Huh.

JJ’s fingers hesitate for a long second before touching his chin, half-expecting to find nothing but a mesh of whatever his body was made of. But they’re met with a firm, hard jawline, skin connecting it to his neck, and his lips, and keeping his blood and whatever—Pope would know better—where it’s supposed to be, _inside_.

The blond lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It comes out in the form of a chuckle, airy and free.

Pope would find this the most interesting. Does JJ have scars? He’d know how his body managed to heal, how his brain preserved.

He begins to wonder about what effect this has on the rest of his life—afterlife?—when he hears a small voice, just like Pope’s.

 _‘Being buried alive is one of the worst ways to die,’_ he told the pogues months ago, solving a past paper that someone who wants to be a coronary would take. _‘You’ve got five and a half hours’ worth of air, tops. You’ll suffocate before someone finds you, if they ever do, anyway. It’s not all bad, because the carbon dioxide you produce breathing eventually overtakes most of the air inside the coffin, and you fall into a coma. You die and you feel lightheaded, like you’re falling asleep.’_

You die like you’re falling asleep.

JJ wonders if he’d wake up again. Probably. Does he have nine lives or an infinite number?

He’d like to test that.

But for now, if Pope’s right—and JJ is kind of hoping he isn’t—then he’s got about five hours to get to the surface. Even if he wakes up again, there’ll be no air for him to breathe, which essentially keeps him dead, until possibly thousands of years pass and someone accidentally opens his grave and he storms out like a zombie from another time like in that movie with—

_Focus._

‘Focus. Yeah, I gotta focus.’

JJ nods to himself. He calms his breathing and starts to think about every possible way to get out of his situation. He’s not claustrophobic, which is surprising, but that might be because the fact that he vividly (kind of) remembers being shot in the head is kind of more dramatic than waking up in a casket six feet under.

Four feet, he remembers – the earth on the Cut where they made the graveyard isn’t good for digging, or anything, really, so the graves are usually shallower than the standard six feet.

He should be able to push through it – right?

_Right?_

JJ’s died and come back to life. If he can do that, then he can make his way out of here.

For the next however long, JJ tries to remember every piece of information that would help. He knows from John B and when they worked at a construction site for some quick cash that when he opens the casket, all the dirt will fall into the hole he just made and fill it out.

He knows from surfing that aerodynamic works best the flatter the object is, so if it applies to water, it probably applies to earth, too. When he opens the casket, he needs to shoot upright as straight as possible—doing something _straight_ will be the biggest challenge, really—and let the dirt fall over him.

It’s a game of seconds. He’s really got one shot at this.

‘If there’s a massive fuckin’ hole in the middle of a graveyard, someone will notice, right,’ he mutters to himself.

It’s fine. It’s _something_.

JJ presses his palms flat against the massive wood over him. The material is hard and stiff, but when he bangs against it, it moves a little. Enough for a few bits of the earth to fall in, on his chest.

(Or so he thinks. It’s not like he can see.)

He figures that his best bet is pushing it open like a door, then squeezing immediately as he keeps pushing it. The gravity of the earth falling should hurt him—he knows this isn’t going to be easy, or nice, or pleasant—but he should push through if he does the Superman pose, with his hand in the air.

The thought makes him chuckle, and as his lips stretch, he tastes sweat in the corners. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and it leaves a wet mark, so he wipes that on his shorts.

JJ sighs. ‘They buried me with the fuckin’ cargo shorts.’

He hadn’t given much thought to how he’d be buried, but now he reckons his hair is a mess, his shirt is a basketball-style, holes big enough so that the sweat from his armpits soaks into whatever carpet they put at the bottom of the coffin.

JJ stinks – like, _badly._ He remembers Pope said that corpses shit and pee themselves and fart and whatnot, but has no clue if he acted like a real corpse. Was he _dead_ dead, or just kind-of comatose without a heartbeat?

Shit, what if he’s been dead for a while? If his dead had been blown off then it must’ve taken ages to reconstruct.

What if he comes back and the pogues have moved on, they have families and kids, and Pope’s gone off to university and—

‘Shut up,’ JJ whispers to himself. This pitch-black darkness is making him see things, and feel things he doesn’t want to.

He’ll deal with that later. The only thing that matters right now is getting the fuck out of here.

JJ doesn’t let his hand shake when he applies pressure to the wooden board above him. He does it slowly, and when it doesn’t budge, he knows slowly isn’t the way to do it.

So JJ just thinks of Pope, John B, and Kie, and their faces on the HMS Pogue, and slams through the coffin. He slithers through the whole immediately, eyes and mouth closed and the same hand that opened the coffin is outstretched, high above his head, and he’s pushing with his legs instead of his back.

He was right – the earth is heavy. He feels it crumbling around his chest, around his feet, around every inch of space he’s just created, but he keeps pushing.

If he doesn’t push, he’ll stay like this—half buried—forever.

The tip of his finger touches the air – then another, then all five. The fact that he’s so close gives him a surge of adrenaline, coursing through his veins, and he pushes through the weight of the earth even further, until his entire hand is above the ground.

_fuck yeah._

Then an elbow. Then he slides his other hand across his torso, feeling the weight tug at the bones until the pain is so intense he thinks he might’ve broken it. His chest tightens—it’s been almost a minute—but he manages to get the other hand out, too.

Just a little more.

One more push.

_that’s what she said_ , he thinks.

And pushes.

Being out of the coffin after spending it in about an hour or so is like jumping from a tall cliff – thrilling, chill-inducing, and very much like breaking the water tension with your back instead of the head.

He gasps like a fish out of water, still trapped from shoulders and below, but he _breathes._

JJ laughs, and then realises he’s also being soaked because it’s raining harder then he can remember, and figures it’s okay to open his eyes. It hurts, at first glance – the sky is shrouded in dark grey clouds and rain is absolutely pouring, but he sees that it’s day, not night, and he sees that the trees still look like late summer.

‘ _FUCK YEAH!_ ’

Thrilled to be alive, JJ lets himself have a moment to breathe. He sees he’s buried in one of the cheapest parts of the graveyard—which says much considering his dad must’ve been the one who paid for the funeral—and most of the other graves look terrible. He turns his head to the side, just enough to look at his own.

J. MAYBANK. 2003 – 2020. BELOVED SON AND FRIEND.

‘Sons of bitches,’ he mutters. ‘It’s like it would’ve killed them to be fuckin’ _creative_ for once.’

His arms ache and his legs feel like they’re about to give in, but he’s got to get out. With a deep breath, he buries— _ha!_ —his fingers as firmly into the ground as far as he can, and then tugs.

He’s out a minute later, but he’s damn glad no one was around to hear him grunting like a little pussy.

JJ shakes his limbs, getting some blood through them. He looks disgusting – dirt mixed with sweat means that it’s all sticking to him, and he doesn’t even want to know what his face must look like – even if it isn’t absolutely _mangled_. His hair is terrible probably, too, because the strands that aren’t sticking to his face seem mucky when he tries running his finger through it.

_i thought they made dead men look pretty._

Then he tells himself not even dying and crawling out of a grave could make him look any less pretty, so he’s okay.

‘Ha,’ he muses to himself, ‘my pretty goes beyond the grave.’

About ten minutes later, when his muscles feel as alive as he does, he begins his twenty-minute trek to the Chateau. He figures it’s his best bet – it’s next to the marsh, which isn’t too far from the graveyard, and JJ’s not going to get anywhere near the road if he’s taking the fastest route.

So, looking like a dead man walking, he sets off for the Chateau.

By the time he’s arrived, some of the dirt has washed off—he conveniently stood under a tree that was basically leaking water—and he guessed he didn’t look a lot different than anyone walking around under this kind of weather. There were no puddles for him to look at himself at, which was quite a shame, but he figured he’d just check himself out at a mirror in the Chateau.

Now, JJ is just… He’s just standing in front of the backdoor to the place. The marsh is behind him and the house in the front, and this should be simple, except he’s got no clue what’s about to happen. Lights are on in the living room, that much he could see from the outside, but there was no guarantee it would be his friends.

Panic started to eat him inside out – what if he walks in, unannounced, and it turns out he’s been dead for years and some completely random people live here, instead?

Before he manages to chicken out, he opens the door. The door creaks— _that’s a good sing_ , thinks JJ, _John B was going to have it fixed by the end of the year—_ and promptly closes behind him. Old reggae coming from the living room is the only sound aside from water dripping off of JJ.

_fuck it._

JJ makes his way to the living room. A lightning strikes somewhere nearby and, just as he rounds the corner, thunder follows.

His friends are sitting on the floor, in the middle of the room.

JJ grins. ‘Tell me, do I make Freddy Krueger look pretty?’

In that very moment, three things happen. John B screams. Kiara knocks over the speaker. Pope faints.

And as for thing four, that happens a moment later, JJ just sighs. ‘That bad, huh?’

* * *

‘…and that’s how I ended up here.’

About two hours later, JJ’s finally finished his story. It took them quarter of an hour just to stop freaking out—Pope had been convinced he’d seen a ghost until Kiara and John B managed to explain to him he hadn’t—and even then, they weren’t ready to hear the story.

They made him take a shower, first. Fair enough.

John B went with him to get some towels and clean clothes, and Kiara stayed in the living room, getting Pope some water. Nobody spoke for a very, very long time.

When JJ looked at himself in the mirror, he was both distraught and amazed. There was a scar running from cheek to cheek, over his nose, and well underneath his jaw, with skin inside this circle looking like it had been slightly burned years ago, with colour different to the rest of his face. JJ ran a finger over it – the texture was rough in some places, smoother in others.

Somehow, he was convinced the scars would persist, but his skin would heal. He felt it in his bones – it rang as true as the fact that his heart was about to burst through his ribcage the moment he’d locked eyes with Pope.

JJ took a shower, cleaned himself up. The clothes John B had brought him were his own, and he smelt them for a second – it felt like coming home.

The Chateau had always been his home.

When he returned to the living room, Pope looked a little better – they all did. JJ reassured them that he had, in fact, died and been buried. Pope went on to state in graphic detail how mangled his body—head more so than other parts—had been when they’d last seen him.

JJ forgot Rafe had killed him in front of _them_.

‘Y’all must be scarred for life,’ he said as he took a seat on the floor of John B’s living room, and then grinned. ‘But not on the outside, like me.’

They didn’t find it as funny as he did.

So, with the aid of some water and pizza they had leftover from earlier, JJ told his story. There were a lot of interruptions—not as many from Pope as he would’ve thought, considering dead people are his expertise—but he managed to get it done.

And now, he grins at them, arms spread over the couch behind him. ‘So, y’all impressed already?’

The silence is pregnant. Kiara’s hands are folded in her lap as she leans her back against the couch, and John B mirrors her position, only on the wall. Pope, unlike the other three, is standing with his side against the doorway, biting his nails. (JJ is pretty convinced that’s a habit he picked up from _him_.)

Kiara clears her throat. ‘JJ, you were gone for _two months_.’

‘What? No way, that’s— That’s impossible, Kie. It was just yesterday—’

‘We buried you,’ says John B, voice hoarse. ‘Mourned you. Had to learn how to live without you.’

‘But I’m back now! That’s great news, right?’

‘JJ, we’re fuckin’ happy you’re back.’ John B leans forward and pats him on the back, squeezing his shoulder. His smile is grim, but it’s there. ‘It’s just a little unbelievable. We watched you die. It’ll— It’ll take us some… time.’

At the doorway, Pope is still staring at JJ as if he’ll disappear at any given moment.

JJ’s neck stiffens, and he’s sure John B feels it, because his hand falls limp to the side. The blond mumbles something, incoherently enough that not even he knows what he said, then shakes his head. ‘I should probably get some rest.’ His eyes fall to his lap. ‘Apparently two months wasn’t enough.’

His words seem to cut through the atmosphere in a way that alienates him from the rest of them – the uninterruptedly living.

Nobody says anything, but JJ still rises to his feet. His hands pat his shirt and his shorts, as if they could do anything to smooth the creases. He glances at John B, whose eyes are fixed on him. ‘My room still empty?’

‘Nobody’s touched it since you…’ The brunet shakes his head, as if a thought needed to get out. ‘Might be a little dusty.’

‘You want me to fetch you anything?’ asks Kiara, voice wavering. ‘I can go to the Wreck—’

‘I’m good. Thanks.’

JJ doesn’t linger around to see their reactions – if there are any, anyway. Last thing he sees is Pope, still leaning against that door frame, unmoving and stoic as ever.

Like John B said, the bed needed to be dusted. JJ was done with that in a couple of minutes, and then he stripped into his underwear ( _what a waste of fresh clothing_ ) and slipped under the covers.

The weight of these past few hours crushed on him like a raging storm. It doesn’t matter that he crawled out of his grave to join them – they had two months to figure out a way to live without him. Two months is more than enough to move on, to accept the new reality.

He knows because he’s been through it.

Outside, the storm rages on, too. JJ thinks of John B, a little calmer and quieter now; Kiara, distant like she seemed at the beginning of her kook year; and Pope.

Pope, who wouldn’t look him in the eye for longer than a second. Pope, who always had a smartass comment to chime in with, now pushing himself to the side and not participating.

JJ sighs. His chest is heavy and his face is stinging a little, but the realisation is heavier than any physical pain – his friends managed to move on from him. Couple of hours for JJ meant a couple of months for the pogues. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he gets to leave, now, when everybody thinks he’s dead.

Some time later, JJ lies awake, still. The storm has dwindled to mere tapping on the window, but his mood hasn’t changed.

Another kind of tapping him reaches him – full, against the wooden door separating him from the rest of his life.

JJ gets out of his bed with a tired sway to his hips, legs dragging along the floor. He rubs his eyes before he opens the door and when he does, he leans against the door frame, blinking against the sudden light.

‘Hey,’ greets Pope.

‘Hey.’

There’s hesitation reeking off the boy in front of him. His shoulders are slumped and JJ feels like he’s his height, even though Pope has always been taller.

The blond scratched the itch underneath the left side of his jaw. ‘You want to come in?’

Pope nods. JJ moves to the side and closes the door once they’re both in.

Out of habit, JJ plops down onto the bed, face-first. He doesn’t even notice Pope hasn’t done the same until he shifts a little and realises there’s a silhouette positioned against the window, blocking the moonlight from entering the room.

JJ drags himself to the edge of the bed, feet bare on the floor. His elbows are draped over his knees and he sees Pope a little better now – hands in his pockets and a frown on his face, lower lip with a quiver to it.

‘What’s up?’

‘You’re really here, right?’ Pope doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Alive?’

JJ chuckles, but there isn’t much humour to it. ‘As far as I can tell.’

‘But we watched you die.’

‘I know. I can remember all of that.’

‘You shouldn’t be here. Alive.’

‘I know,’ JJ says. ‘But I am. What are you going to do about it?’

The hesitation that comes off of Pope is different this time. It’s fleeting—ephemeral—and JJ only gets a moment’s worth of looking into his eyes when there’s hands on his cheeks, and warm lips smashing against his own.

All he hears is the rain tapping on the window, or the beating of his own heart. The warmth of Pope’s lips on his, or the cold of the storm.

The touch disappears, and JJ thinks he’s about to wake up in hell, and this was just a way to torture him – to give him something he’s yearned for and take it away like it was nothing.

_open your eyes, boy. we ain’t finished._

His dad’s voice is like electricity and JJ opens his eyes, terrified.

Except it’s just Pope staring at him, looking just as distraught as he feels. JJ isn’t in hell. He’s in John B’s room, and while it might stink like hell, it isn’t it.

The storm is still quiet and gentle, but JJ doesn’t even notice it so much. Not after—

‘I thought I’d missed my chance,’ Pope says, weakly. ‘I just needed— I couldn’t—’

JJ shifts the weight to his feet and his hands find Pope’s neck like they belong there ( _because they do_ ). He holds him—gentle, cautious, fragile—and shakes his head, at loss for words.

He wants to say ‘me too, Pope,’ except it’s not good enough. Except it doesn’t encapsulate what it feels like to die thinking the man you love never loves you back, or at least you’ll never find out, only to wake up, _alive_ , and find out that your feelings have been reciprocated all along.

To crawl out of a grave for him.

JJ kisses him with the very same ferocity, with more hunger to it. JJ’s felt death—he’s felt the unknowable—and he won’t let another moment pass without doing the things he’d been afraid to do.

By the time they part, both boys are catching their breath, not even an inch apart. JJ’s hands are firm on Pope’s neck, thumbs tracing the lines of his jaw, while Pope’s hands grip the blond’s shirt at his sides.

JJ wants to say something, _anything_.

Pope is faster. ‘I thought I’d never get to do this.’

All JJ can do is nod; no words could ever be enough.

The shaky breath that falls from Pope’s lips only moments later is different from the boy who was leaning against the door frame earlier – more like the Pope JJ knew.

_fell in love with_.

It’s a little bit cynical, and a little bit guarded, but nevertheless free and innocent like JJ always knew him to be. But he takes creates some distance between the two, and JJ’s hands drop to his sides.

Pope’s smile isn’t what JJ thought it would be. It doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘You’re leaving.’

He should’ve known Pope would realise it. He just wondered what gave him away. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t lie to me, JJ. Not after we just—’ Pope cuts himself off. He clears his throat, resting the back of his head against the window.

Breathless, JJ sits down on the bed, same position as earlier – as if his entire life hadn’t just been rocked from one side to the other. ‘I’m dead, Pope. You buried me. That’s what John B said. I get to— I get to do whatever I want. Go whatever I want. I’m… I’m free, Pope.’

The moon peeks through the clouds, bright enough to bask Pope’s silhouette in silver. JJ thinks of how much the boy resembles an angel – how he felt like one when he’d kissed him, granting him a wish he’d never dared to voice.

‘You could stay,’ suggests a small voice. ‘Be our own little ghost.’

JJ lets out a full laugh. ‘Is that what I am now?’

Pope’s smile becomes a little clearer as the moon gets back behind the clouds, and JJ wishes he could see his eyes clearly, too. ‘I can’t lose you again.’

He knows he should leave. They both know, Pope more so than anyone. JJ’s dead—legally—meaning that he can’t be seen around town without raising more than a couple of eyebrows. He can’t live on his own. He can’t—

He’s free from his dad, from obligations, but if he stays, he becomes enslaved to his own death.

But if he stays…

_i lost you once already, pope. i can’t do it again, either._

He sighs and, unaware JJ’s already made his choice, Pope drops on the bed next to him, hand holding the blond’s. ‘Just for a year. Not even that long. Then I’ll be off to university, where no one knows any of us, and— And we can get a fresh start. Together.’

Careful, JJ cups the boy’s cheek. He can see his eyes now, as the moon shines on them like no other person has been worthy of its light – they’re not sad, or hopeful, but they are fretting.

JJ kisses his cheek, before turning his head slightly to place a chaste kiss on his lips.

He could never think of giving up on this. Not when he’d died to get it.

So he echoes, ‘Together.’

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! you can come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://maybankiara.tumblr.com).


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